It was a rich man’s wedding, to be truly accurate, a rich man’s daughter’s wedding. There was a large crowd and the road leading to the venue, the indoor stadium where often bigwig weddings are held, was overflowing with traffic. Dr. Chandran, the rich man, was a leading gynaecologist in town so the local practitioners had come in their droves driving gleaming new sedans. In Kerala (in southern India), doctors are arguably the richest community, if one can label them that and the car dealers love them. 

I walked past groups of people near the entrance, most of them complete strangers to me, after I parked my humble little car some distance away. I was invited for this wedding by virtue of living in the same street as Dr. Chandran and though I did not move around in the same social circles, felt that it was only proper to mark attendance.  

I noticed the stranger for the first time as I was walking up to the entrance of the stadium, not that he was anything much to look at. He must have been close to seventy I guessed, with straggly white hair bordering a mottled bald pate, aged clothes and chappals (slippers). What attracted my attention, apart from the fact that he stuck out from the crowd of well dressed wedding attendees, was probably the pathetically eager expression on his face. Also there was an indefinable something about him which made me look closely. ‘Must be a drunk trying to gatecrash,’ was my initial assessment. 

Curious to know whether he was indeed one, I fell into step beside him as we walked in. As if sensing the heat of my curiosity, he glanced up at me and returned my smile. We pushed our way into a corner, some distance away from the jasmine-decked stage where the marriage ceremony was taking place. The rituals were being performed by a priest of the Ezhava community and we could hear the murmur of mantras being chanted. The bride Ragini, slim and dark, stood smiling bashfully waiting for the thali (the wedding necklace) to be tied around her neck by the bridegroom. I could hear whispers from the women in the crowd. 

‘Ragini is doing her higher studies in America. The groom is a doctor in England.’

‘Looks a real Sayiv (Caucasian) doesn’t he? So handsome and fair.’ There were titters all around at this.

‘He must have got an extra large dowry to accept such a dark girl.’  

Regrettably, Kerala is no exception to the pan Indian fascination and longing for a fair complexion.  

‘Dr.Chandran must be minting millions from his practice. Look at the girl’s jewellery!’ came another gasp followed by more giggles. 

The bride’s slender neck flaunted five or six heavy gold necklaces, of varying sizes and the newest designs, apart from stacks of gold bangles on both hands. I pitied the poor girl as I felt sure that, apart from the discomfort of heat aggravated by the bright lights of videographers filming the event for later generations to watch, she was feeling the strain of holding up the enormous weight of her ornaments. I mentioned this to the stranger in an attempt to break the ice and get him to talk and was rewarded by an uncertain smile.  

‘He can’t be anything else but a gatecrasher,’ I continued my mental debate.  

Finally the ceremony came to an end and people started milling around, some impatiently waiting to congratulate the couple and others edging to the section where the sadhya, feast, awaited. I nudged the man who seemed to be in a trance and asked, ‘Why don’t we find a table and try out the sadhya?’  

He nodded and we walked to the nearest vacant table. The rice, sambhar, avial and other curries and delicacies like banana chips helped thaw him out of his reticence gradually. His voice and speech belied his shabbiness, sounding surprisingly well modulated and refined. He told me that he lived in Trivandrum City where he worked in a small drug store and that he had come into town just that morning for the wedding, a fact that inflamed my curiosity further.  

‘What about your family?’ I queried.

‘All gone long ago,’ was the quiet reply. 

Over the Paal Ada Payasam (desert made of thickened milk and chunky rice flakes), I pointed out a number of well known doctors to him saying that they were all Dr.Chandran’s friends. He nodded and said softly, ‘Yes I know. I was one myself once upon a time.’ 

I was not sure whether I had heard him right and gaped.

‘A doctor?’ I stammered.

He nodded and said, ‘Yes but no longer so.’

‘Do you know that years ago Chandran and I studied together and we were partners?’ he continued. 

I was not entirely convinced that the man was not concocting a tall one but as he carried on with his story I listened in rapt silence. 

Over twenty five years ago, two young medicos, fresh out of the medical college decided to set up practice in town instead of taking the usual route of joining government service. They were an unlikely pair, one from a wealthy family of businessmen and the other one from a rural lower middle-class family. Chandran, the wealthy one put up the initial capital for setting up their clinic. The early period of struggle, hard work and late hours saw them through as the practice flourished and they became known for their dedication and skill. Their little clinic grew into a well known hospital. 

‘Unfortunately I was always a greedy one,’ he said, ‘maybe because of deprivation  during my childhood days. I wanted the good things in life and I wanted them in a hurry.’ 

He set up an illegal little abortion clinic unknown to Chandran in another part of town. Day by day his dark business grew as he performed hundreds of abortions, ridding young unmarried girls of unwanted pregnancies. He was wealthy at last, way beyond his expectations. His wife often remonstrated with him saying that they would suffer the curse of a thousand little unborn ones whose lives were snuffed out prematurely. But her pleas went unheeded as his greed was too strong and he continued to ruthlessly nip the tiny human buds.  

‘Those were cushy days, money, a big house, car, servants and all that a man could desire to lead a comfortable life,’ he reminisced. ‘But the Gods above were fattening me for the kill; and punish me they did with a vengeance. They all came together though, those deadly blows of retribution.’ 

He was silent for sometime as he stared sightlessly into his grimy past. I waited impatiently wanting him to carry on with his tale, a hundred questions churning in my mind. 

‘They caught me finally. I was debarred and punished and my gentle Sumathi died at childbirth around the same time. Her prophecy had come true in a manner I could never have imagined. After I served my sentence, I made a resolve never to come back to this town.’ 

We had finished our meal by then and got up to leave.

I asked him the obvious question, ‘Well then why did you come back?’ 

He gave a cackle which sounded like a sob and, half-turning, said, ‘To have one last look at my child,’ pointing to the bejewelled form of the dusky bride standing on the distant dais smiling away for the interminable photographs.

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